Skeen's Return (10 page)

The serving girls moved on their knees to Tod's side and knelt there, mute and pliant, waiting for whatever he chose to ask of them. Timka had done the same herself with the Poet and thought little of it then. A matter of surviving with a minimum of pain and fuss. Now her tail twitched and her muzzle flattened in a soundless snarl. The fit was brief and ended with a burst of silent laughter as she mocked herself. It all depends on where you're watching from, eh, Ti? For those girls no doubt it was the same as it was for her. A bit of business in the art of surviving. No more than that. For all her understanding, though, a bad taste lingered in her mouth.

Tod sent the girls away with a flick of his hand. Timka edged her head under the arras and watched them stroll off across the hall and vanish into the back where the servant quarters were, stretching, rubbing at their necks, talking in whispers as they moved.

Ti-cat crawled nearer to the archway, flattened herself below the glass fans and pricked her ears to listen. Nothing. Her tail jerked against the arras with small thudding sounds. She raised her head. The men were looking out at the torchlit lawn, watching the musicians as they readied themselves. A few scattered notes, then a heavy driving beat from the drums, a fast hard counter from the cittern strings. A tall angular androgynous Pass-Through walked between two torch poles, took up the beat of the music, stamping in place on the grass, torso rippling, then began a splendidly barbaric dance.

“Oh, it's not authentic,” Tod murmured, his peeping voice so very modest, “just a little entertainment I devised for your pleasure, Char Vassa Bassa.”

The uphill Funor had laid aside his cowl. Ti-cat could see the back of his neck, one ear and a bit of face. His half-meter horns were polished until they gleamed a dark ivory; gold and silver wire were inlaid into the tough substance, intricate whorls that outlined cartouches where bits of jade and pearl and chips of amethyst and emerald and ruby were shaped into rayed designs. A glittering opulent decoration to an otherwise undistinguished form. Fat jowly head, very white skin flushed roseate with wine and lust. He leaned toward Tod. “That dancer, is it as agile on a mattress as it is on the grass?”

Tod shrugged. “Too old for my tastes, too bony. So many more enticing come through here.…” A wave of a limp hand.

“You live in a paradise most men only dream of, Tod. Are there no men at all in your house?”

“Women are pliant creatures and adaptable,” Tod said. “They keep me comfortable, why not. My men walk the walls and watch from the guard towers, why should I have them here?”

Outside, the dance ended, the musicians and the dancer collected their gear and vanished round the side of the house.

“And woffits in the garden. No doubt there are woffits where I sit once you have gone up.” Vassa Bassa sounded blearily envious. “And a peaceful night, bedwarmers beside you, no fear your throat will be cut before the dawn breaks. Sometimes I think I should buy peace with that cow Pululvatit Grytta and go back to the Funor Plain where I have kin who'd guard me with their lives instead of spending those lives looking for a way to bleed my veins dry.” He gulped at the tepid wine and his neck got a degree redder while the ear that she could see was almost purple. “Heyya hai, I'd do it tomorrow had I the blood price. Tod, you Pallah don't know what greed is; just wait till you come across a cow in spite, you'll find out.” He grunted, squeezed his nape into accordion folds and gulped the lees of his wine, blew out a cloud of droplets, and settled back muttering to himself. “Not my fault he had air 'tween his horns. Every shorthorn plays rough games. We played rough games, so what? Wasn't my fault he tried to play Fool without the Tapping and bashed the Ippy Lyta. Nearly got ME killed, that gimp brain.” He scowled uncertainly at the goblet, wrestled himself up and refilled it at the urn cock. The effort seemed to sober him. Head swaying, he peered at Tod. Ti-cat read hostility and alarm in what she could see of his face and the set of his body. Tod had the presence of mind to have his eyes shut and to produce a soft eeping snore. The Funor relaxed. He's either dumb or very drunk, Timka thought; she watched him settle back and changed her mind. No, Ti, you don't make that mistake or you're the dumb one; maybe he's not the brightest of the Funor, but he's cunning or he wouldn't be alive. No. Tod was giving him a way to save face and he took it because Tod's too useful to him to throw away for such a little happening.

After a few more minutes of silence punctuated by Tod's tactful snores, Vassa Bassa cleared his throat, flicked a fingernail against his goblet's bowl, making it ring loudly. “Tod!”

Tod opened his eyes and sat up with a thousand apologies for his discourtesy.

Vassa Bassa brushed them off, showing his irritation, and turned the conversation to the reason he was there. “Word is you've a shipment due soon.”

“Not soon, Char. Tomorrow. The messenger bird came shortly before you did. Your timing, as usual, is impeccable, oh Char. Shipmaster Khorem will be tieing up a short while after the noon meal if all goes well.”

“Sent he a list of what he's got?”

“In general terms, Char. Twelve fives of young Pallah studs, sturdy stock with years of work in them. And this is a coup indeed—Khorem got his hands on nine Skirrik dames old enough to be well-trained in their arts but young enough for heavy work. And three Skirrik pups guaranteed to be deft at sniffing out Min spies. Twelve twos of tender girls, a mix of Balayar and Pallah with three young Chalarosh bitches, defanged of course. Something else, what, what … ah! a handful of Aggitj extras. He took those on because they come from the orehills in the Backland and one is said to be an ore-sniffer, but I truly doubt that because no family would exile such an asset.”

“Unless they happened to be a family of ore-sniffers and too many of their kind would lessen their worth.”

“So wise, oh Char, then the report might be true. I will not guarantee it though, not without a trial of his skills. And it will be important to keep the presence of these Aggitj quiet. You know the Slukra, they squeal like rats and turn mean if they think you're fooling with their cousins.”

Vassa Bassa snorted, gulped at his wine. “When will you be showing them?”

“I will have to polish them up a bit, settle the restive ones, work on them so they show well. No doubt I'll have the first presentation next Pyaday.”

“Arrange a private showing, Tod. Next Tirday, no later.” Vassa Bassa reached into his robe, fumbled about a bit, lifted out a heavy pouch. He loosened the thongs, emptied the coins inside onto the floor, a ringing, clanking shower of gold, a ringing rattling outrun as coins that fell on edge rolled away and toppled over. Before the noise was finished, Vassa Bassa was on his feet, pulling his cowl over head and horns. He didn't wait for an answer but stalked out. A moment later the ceremonial door slammed and he was bellowing his guard onto their feet.

The arrogance and ill will in that gesture didn't begin to touch Tod. He lay smiling a little, his hands clasped over his stomach, until he heard the guard marching off, then he got to his feet and stumped heavily to the line of long windows. Drapes were tightly bunched at both ends, stiff, hieratic, fold packed against fold. He shook his wide sleeves back from his wrists, found the pull cords and began drawing the curtains over the windows. They flowed smoothly shut, heavy and dark, blocking the view from the garden. Whistling tweedle-weedle he came back, dropped to his knees and began collecting the coins. He weighed each, right hand left hand, tested each with a thumbnail filed to a point, ran a thumbpad around the rims. He looked supremely contented handling that gold, caressing it, stacking coin on coin into solid little piles. Vassa Bassa's attempt to humiliate him hadn't touched him because he had nothing but contempt for that uphill Funor; the heavy shining gold was all that mattered.

When he had retrieved all the coins, judged them and sorted them, he got to his feet and walked quickly to the archway, passing less than a meter from Ti-cat's whiskers. A moment later she heard bars slam into their sockets at the ceremonial door, then he was back again, carrying a small silver tray. He stopped short of the arch. Again she eased her head under the arras, wanting to know what he was doing. He moved to the ramp, looked up it, made a circuit of the Great Hall, snooping in the corners, then he walked briskly to the arch, pushed the arras aside and was back in the parlor. He transferred the gold to the tray and carried it to a woven tapestry hanging on the east wall. He pushed the cloth aside (its rings rattled loudly enough for Timka to hear the noise and twitch at it), took a key from round his neck and opened the steel door the tapestry had concealed.

Timka watched him swing the door open, then she was edging back along the wall, getting clear of the arras. Lifefire alone knew how long he'd spend in there fondling his treasure; it was time to get out. She'd had all the luck she could expect in a single night.

“Sometimes I think it's better to be lucky than smart. That was not smart, Ti.”

“It worked.”

“So it did.” Skeen looked grim, but couldn't hold onto that sternness. She patted Timka in the middle of her glossy black curls. “It's a good child, but if it does anything like that again, it's going to get a spanking it won't forget.”

Timka shifted suddenly to cat-weasel and snarled, then was Pallah again, giggling at the speed with which Skeen pulled her hand away.

Skeen sighed and shook her head. “Well, don't make a habit of being that rash. As a corpse you're no use at all.” She stretched out on the bed. “Djabo's teeth, I wish Maggí would get here.”

WHERE TWO PLOTLINES CROSS, LIFE CAN GET MESSY FOR YOUR HEROES AND VILLAINS BOTH.

or

HOW THE HELL DID I GET HERE?

Skeen woke. Head a fuzzball twice its usual size, two little men taking turns hammering at her temples. Stomach churning. Stink of old vomit and stale urine. Cold. Hard. Stone under her. How.… She flattened her hands beside her and pushed herself up, moving slowly, careful not to jar anything vital. How … where.… She shuddered as sudden terror flashed through her. If her mind was so far gone that she couldn't remember how she got here or where here was, if she couldn't remember what she was drinking and where, then … Djabo! Blackouts now. There was a time when she lost hours, days—once, a full week. She was shooting heavy pilpil then. That was after old Harmon died and there was no one she dared trust near her and the world seemed wide and cold and empty. It was far easier to drift in the warm arms of pilpil dreams. Her drift lasted until a shipment of pilpil was intercepted and the dealers she could reach went short. She came down hard and when she bounced, she got all too good a look at herself and the world she lived in. She looked and she said, this is it, no more. A long, long time ago that was, a warning of what could happen that she took seriously. She'd never lost herself again, not even in her Pit Stop binges. Well, reason enough for that, she was enjoying herself too much to waste those hours on unconsciousness. Something about this world that seduced her into excess. No, Skeen, not the world. You. Face it. You're terrified you'll find out Tibo and Picarefy really did get together and betray you because if that's true there's nothing anywhere you can trust. Not even yourself. Especially not yourself. And there's no way you can find out short of half a year. Months of slogging dangerous travel ahead. Months while you feel like you're trying to run in glue. Accept it, Skeen, it's not strange you're chewing your fingernails off to your elbows. All right, all right, I can live with that. But I don't remember, I can't remember drinking that much, I stopped drinking too much a sennight ago, why can't I remember? How did I get here … here? Where is here?

She looked around. A reddish gray light trickled into the cell through a long narrow tray slot about knee height, enough to give her the outlines of the place. Four walls, a ceiling and a floor. One door. Admirably understated. She grinned into the dark, that touch of humor like heat in her shivering body. A minimalist cell. She eased herself onto hands and knees (feeling a bit better but still very fragile), crawled to the door and peered out the tray slot, pressing her face close to the splintery planks. Frustratingly narrow field of vision, but off to one side she saw dark verticals close together and behind them a bumpy lump of blue-violet. She closed her eyes, digging back into foggy recalcitrant memory; the last time she could remember seeing Lipitero, the Ykx wore her blue-violet robe. She pressed closer to the slot, slid back along it to extend her view and saw a familiar pair of knees and part of a massive throne chair. With a sigh that had no surprise in it, she turned away from the slot and eased herself down until she was sitting with her back against the door. Angelsin. Forty devils gnaw her gizzard. How did she find out? Ah, why ask, you know how such things seep out; the only place to bury a secret and expect to keep it is in the heart of a sun, and even then if more than one knows it, forget it. It's going to surface, that's inevitable as entropy. Why should you think you could bag a secret as big as a mythic Ykx? Well, she hadn't really expected so much, she'd just hoped to keep the noise down until the Company got away. Maggí, ah Maggí, get your butt up the river, will you?

She pulled her legs up. Left me my boots. She prodded at the right boot. No surprise. Knife gone. She pulled the boot off and felt around inside. Smiled. Picks and spare blade were still there. Made of a non-refractive resin, they flexed with the leather but were as tough as fine steel, the knife had a blade with an edge that could cut a thought in two; it was thin, a delicate stiletto with a leather hilt; it could turn a steel blade in a fight and slice a throat with ease but it was whippy and treacherous and hard to control, not your general utility weapon. Belt was gone, with her tool kit and darter. Angelsin, you take good care of those till I come for them. The wire saw was nestled in the waistband of her trousers, they hadn't found that either. Well, it could stay there, no bars or chains to cut, at least not now. So. No blackout, Djabo be blessed, just Angelsin drugging us all. All? That's not right. Chulji was out with his farmers and Pegwai was eating with his cousin … eh! If it was last night she did us. She rubbed at her ringless hand; the chron was gone. Fuckin' thieves. How long have I been here? How long? How how how long? Body didn't know. Time snipped out, ragged ends spliced. She wiped her hand along the stone beside the door. Damp. Underground. Could be the middle of the day up in the streets. Or the middle of tomorrow night. Any tomorrow. No, no. She flattened her hand over her stomach. Not that long. Likely a few hours, no more. She passed her tongue along her lips. Wonder if they'd bring me some water if I yelled loud enough?